Midnight Sun
by Windlion
Summary: The one where Santa Claus and the Boogeyman take an accidental field trip to the Arctic in summer. Pitch wishes to fire his travel agent in the most literal sense. North thinks it's just like old times. Clearly this is all North's fault. (Gen)


Pitch was far too familiar with the feeling of struggling out of the depths of unconsciousness lately. He came to slowly, disoriented, pinned face-down against something cold and implacable. Quite possibly the floor of his labyrinth, besieged by nightmares again. His first instinct was well-trained: to fight his way up, all bony knees and elbows.

It was only after he'd heaved the hefty weight of a body off him and shoved his way to his feet that Pitch realized things were quite out of the norm. He was half-blind, but from the sun sparkling off every visible surface. Evidently he'd been making a glacier his bed; that was a new low, and usually required Frost's assistance.

Not that Frost was in sight, but he could still be blamed in principle.

Pitch's gaze fixed on the guardian that _was_ present, and he sighed in disgust. "Wonderful."

Sprawled on the snow, grumbling sleepily to himself, was the jolly St. North himself. He, Pitch noted, had probably been spared the worst of the snow and ice by virtue of an insulating layer of Nightmare King. How, exactly, had they managed this one?

No matter. Best to make a swift retreat before North came to, and no doubt the guardians would throw the full story in his face next time they met, if it was suitably mortifying. (He was dreadfully certain that anything that ended with him being compressed face-first into the ice by the bloody Santa Claus had to be.) Pitch scanned the area swiftly with a practiced eye; nothing but snowfields in all directions. Sparkling, pristine, _well-lit_ snowfields.

Some of the curses that Pitch spat then hadn't seen the light of day in centuries.

"I am not surprised you are not morning person."

Pitch whirled in time to see North sitting up, stroking his beard straight. He skipped a few steps back out of habit, scowling. "North."

"Pitch." North inclined his head. "Dobroye utro."

"And how are you so sure it's morning, North?" Pitch folded his arms, in no mood for extended niceties.

"Because in Arctic summer, when you wake up is morning." North looked around the snowfield as he stood up, nodding to himself. "Beautiful day."

Arctic . . . Well, that opened up a few possibilities, and Pitch liked none of them. "This is your fault, isn't it. Where _are_ we?"

"My fault?" North laughed. "Not my fault you broke my snow globe. Now, we are here." North shrugged prosaically, massive shoulders resettling his fur-lined coat. "I do not know exactly where here is, but arctic, yes."

As much as he hated relying on an enemy, much less relying on a guardian to do the smart thing, Pitch pointed out the obvious. "Then _use another one_."

"Ah." North smiled disarmingly, patting his pockets down one by one. "That might be problem."

Being the king of nightmares, Pitch knew exactly where this was going. He had to ask anyways. "Which would be. . .?"

"What you broke? Was the last one."

"Of course." Pitch Black was never one blessed with luck. He folded his arms against a shiver as a breeze picked up, swirling the skirts of his robe. "So now what?"

North breathed deeply, a twinkling smile peeking out from behind his beard. "The air is very clean. It's a good day to walk."

"You must be joking."

"I do joke!" North winked in a positively terrifying conspiratorial fashion. "I am very merry."

Pitch resisted the urge to rub his temples and gestured expansively, "And you can't just . . . whistle up a reindeer to ride?"

"You do not _ride_ a reindeer. The antlers, very dangerous. You must drive."

"I stand corrected, whistle up your _sleigh_." Pitch heaved a deep sigh. "I cannot believe I am having this conversation."

"No, the reindeer are very strong-minded." North gave him a knowing look, "You may appreciate, Pitch, after herding nightmares."

"I do not _herd _nightmares."

"Exactly! Like cats! You see my point."

Pitch buried his face in his hands and felt the uncharacteristic urge to tear at his hair. "Walking. Of all the spirits, why _you_?"

"You should be glad I am your host! We are in the arctic, so the Kristoff Claussen must be near. Come, I will lead you home."

Looking at the vast expanse of brilliant ice and snow made his eyes water and his abused head throb. Nowhere in sight was the line of mountains or cliffs that surrounded the Kristoff Claussen. "Near _must_ be a relative term."

"Of course, always is." North shadowed his eyes to stare up at the sky, then nodded decisively in one direction that looked not at all different from the rest. "This way."

"Oh, by all means, after you." Pitch gestured ahead, "Lead on."

One foot after another. Pitch stiffly, gamely, trudged on behind the intrepid adventurer, both hands tightly clasping his cloak closed against the gusts of icy wind down his neck. Shadows, it seemed, were not the most insulating of things against wind and never-ending sunlight. North was seemingly oblivious to the climate in his thick coat, and was cheerfully humming snippets of carols to himself. Pitch would rather have happily undergone a thrashing by any of the guardians than admit that he was beginning to be able to tell when North was mangling the tune.

North. Really.

He could have handled the newest member of their little club, Jack Frost. The brat would have been perfectly at home in the cold, and it would have been child's play to ride his shadow when he whistled up the winds. Not to mention the amusement factor of toying with his insecurities. Jack was a big red button labeled "Don't push." The results were obvious.

Pitch kept his eyes half-lidded and down, barely open enough to place his feet reliably in North's shadow, and let his mind wander.

The Sandman. A proficient source of transportation, not nearly as harsh on the ears, but regrettably proven both unshaken by his brief period of conversion and to hold quite the grudge (not to mention a mean whip hand). The Tooth Fairy. Also a flier, annoyingly naive and bubbly, but with a surprisingly satisfying vicious streak and a host of unpleasant memories she can never forget to prey on. The pookha. Guardian of hope, yet so easily riled. He certainly hated Pitch, and sharing his company would have been nearly as grating as North's, but the instant the overgrown rabbit stamped his foot, Pitch would have been off through the tunnels faster than their originator. A momentary inconvenience, nothing more.

No, he had to be stuck with North. Bluff, optimistic, fearless North, who couldn't fly or teleport without his gadgets. And him without a shadow or a single nightmare to his name.

At least the musing must have passed the time, because the next thing he noticed was plowing directly into North's shoulders, bouncing off the larger spirit who had stopped in his tracks. Pitch flinched back from the contact, finding his balance quickly. "What now, North?" He'd meant to sound scathing, but it came out rather lackluster instead.

North turned back to face him; Pitch didn't bother raising his eyes to make out his expression. "Perhaps we stop for a rest, da?"

There was the slightest swell of a hill, making a meager windbreak and wan shadow for them to rest in. Pitch didn't know how North even noticed it. He arched a brow. "If we must."

Pitch dropped unceremoniously into the deepest part of the shadow, not minding the cold so much in favor of the slightest hint of dark. His eyes closed, enjoying the moment of silence and stillness, until he realized something was . . . off. He opened his eyes to find North frowning down at him with an expression of . . . concern?

"I was afraid of that."

The nightmare king smirked archly, "You, afraid? Do tell."

"Afraid that you are not well." North folded his arms, grave. "You did not fight me."

"About stopping?" Pitch shifted to a more dignified position, sitting straighter and pulling his feet in so he could stand swiftly. He threw in an appropriate note of mocking, "Perhaps I merely bowed to your wisdom."

North shook his head. "Now, and when we woke. You did not remember what had happened or where we were."

Pitch waved dismissively. "The trauma of our travel and your flattening me must have jarred the finer details from my memory. That's hardly worth noting, North."

The guardian did not look convinced, but he continued. "Now- _I_ did not choose to stop. You were moving very slowly. You did not want to leave shadow." North frowned. "And that is very troubling. The midnight sun is no good for you."

"I am made of fear and darkness; what part of this little adventure in constant light thousands of miles away from humanity did you expect would go well for me?" Pitch rubbed his eyes. "You don't even have the decency to have a single proper phobia."

"Hmm." North rumbled thoughtfully, then sat down uphill from Pitch where his shadow would fall upon him. Pitch wanted badly not to notice the small kindness. "Rest, and we will continue in morning."

Something cutting about days and dubious time-telling techniques struggled to find voice on Pitch's tongue, but died in silence as exhaustion overtook him. It wasn't sleep, but it was deep, abiding black, and that was what counted.

He woke to an enormous hand shaking his shoulder and a low voice muttering in Russian. Pitch slapped the hand away reflexively, with perhaps more sting than expected as the words turned into a surprised oath.

"What- " North was ruefully rubbing at claw marks on his hand. Pitch was unruffled; he should have known better than to touch the Nightmare King. "Ah. _You_." Pitch squinted his eyes shut again after a brief glance at their surroundings. Ice, snow, quite possibly a little permafrost for variety, all gleaming and limned in silver with sunlight. The whole unlovely incident was coming back to him. He wondered how many more days of this he'd have to endure, as if they could even count days without nights.

"I see now."

"See _what_?" Pitch didn't bother opening his eyes again, already disgruntled. He threw his arms wide at the bare horizons. "There is nothing _to_ see, North."

"Why you are too tired to greet the morning." North sounded too earnest for Pitch's nerves to handle. "You do not dream."

"Did you seriously expect the Sandman to come gift me with butterflies every time I close my eyes?" Pitch paused, canting his head sideways. "Always butterflies. There is something wrong with that man."

"Butterflies? Sandy always sends me candy canes." North stroked his beard contemplatively. "Perhaps could use some variety."

Truth be told, and Pitch Black had always had a very tenuous relationship with truth, likely the only reason he hadn't had nightmares was that he wasn't close enough to draw any without the dreamsand readily available. That was a bit of a double-edged sword; he could have done with some four-hooved company at the moment despite the price.

Well, hopes and wishes were for very different spirits than himself.

He pried himself out of the snowbank with a modicum of dignity, completely ignoring North's attempt to offer him a claw-marked hand. "Enough chatter, North. Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

Pitch held straight and steady, implacable, as the man looked contemplatively at him. The sheer amount of light present gave him a corona that made his features an indistinct silhouette. He much preferred the shoe on the other foot, being the shadow in the dark himself. There was no telling what the so-called jolly man was seeing revealed now. Finally, the big man shrugged, turning away. "Yes, of course. This way."

Another exciting day of trudging through the white, open wastes. With bloody Nicholas St. North himself. Fantastic. He grimaced silently behind the man's back as the humming began again. The wind was a steady breeze across his face, kicking up cold powder not far afield from Jack Frost's specialty. Pitch tucked his hands into the opposing sleeves, slit his eyes against the light, and soldiered on in North's footsteps.

Maybe Pitch was wrong; this was a nightmare all on its own.

There was a thought. A horrible one, but all the more potentially accurate for being dreadful.

His focus shrank to the monotonous ice, snow, and the rare patches of rock scoured bare by the wind that passed beneath his feet. Perhaps the horizon was more appealing, but it was beyond Pitch's scope for the moment. His head ached in a throb that matched his marching steps.

This would have been so much more _tolerable_ in Antarctica.

"I am sure the Guardians are looking for us." North's unwelcome interruption was aggravatingly chipper, "It is only a matter of time before Bunny and others find us."

"Oh, please. Be accurate. For you, perhaps, and only for me to ensure I haven't . . . corrupted you yet."

"Corrupt?" North laughed, deep and friendly. "You could not scare elf right now."

Pitch became aware he had stopped in his tracks. He straightened up from his unconscious hunch against the chill. "I beg your pardon?"

"Pitch." North turned and clapped a hand on Pitch's shoulder. It was fatherly, warm, and not the least bit threatening. Pitch didn't trust it in the least. North sounded concerned, like he was talking to one of his fellow imbeciles-in-arms. "You are pale as snow. You flicker in light. You do not argue. You slept like a dead man. You are very weak."

Pitch breathed in sharply through his nose, and spoke deadly mild, "Are you sure you weren't the one dropped on their head, North?"

North laughed, laughed like that was an honest joke, and turned back to the invisible path he had been following. "Come, I bring you home."

Silently, Pitch marveled at the man's idiocy. He insulted the Nightmare King, then turned his back on him. He deserved what came next. There was too much ambient light, too little shadow to draw from for a blade, but fear, oh, fear was everywhere Pitch went. Pitch clenched his fists, drew in every iota of strength he possessed, and lashed out an attack of sheer terror at the undefended Guardian's back.

North dropped to his knees in the snow in surprise, one hand clutching at his heart. It was too much to hope that he'd shocked the old jolly Santa Claus into heart failure, but it was gratifying nonetheless. Pitch stalked forward to loom over the man, snarling. "Do not underestimate me, guardian! I am not _tame_."

"Pitch, you must stop!" Disgustingly, North sounded not terrified, but . . . anxious. "You do not have the energy-"

"Do not patronize me, North!" Oh, there burned the rage to fuel another strike, keeping the guardian down on legs that trembled. Disconcertingly, the white lit world was turning black around the edges. Pitch hissed between his teeth. "I am not some mongrel puppy to rescue!"

Something other than sight warned him when the Guardian gathered himself to strike. He dodged sideways, disgusted when he realized that North hadn't even drawn steel. There was no telling whisper of blades cutting through air at all. He swiped away the guardian's grasping arms on the second pass, shredding a satisfying handful of cloth. He scoffed, standing still as he sought where the guardian's next attack would come from, "You brought this on yourself."

He was turning even as the weight hit him square in the chest. He hit the ground hard, losing his breath on a forced exhale and incapable of bringing it back. He knew a moment of panic then, his vision well and truly useless. North's bulk pinned him into the snow, arms caught at his side.

North rumbled, "I am sorry, Pitch."

In the silence that followed, while Pitch desperately tried to find the air to breathe and articulate the level of scorn that statement demanded, he heard very clearly the groaning of the snow below them.

Perhaps North didn't hear it in time to react. Perhaps it was what he'd intended all along. (And if so, Pitch had to credit the man with more malice aforethought than he'd expected.)

Either way, Pitch was the first to fall down the gaping maw of the crevasse.

He wished he could say he blacked out. It was nothing so kind as that. Instead, in the empty white of his snow-blanked vision, he fell. Tumbled. Jarred off multiple installations of ice, skidded, slid, and at last lodged in a vise at a very unlikely diagonal. His feet had no purchase on the ice, his weight rested on his shoulders. He had one arm raised and tucked in to protect his head; he had the disconcerting feeling that if he moved that shoulder much, he would slide further down headfirst.

Pitch Black had endured many indignities and discomforts through the ages, but really, this was getting a bit much. It was all North's fault. Pitch firmly believed that, and no amount of truth could change his mind. He could hear exclamations in Russian above him- well above him, apparently.

He supposed a greater girth was a benefit when sliding into a crack in the ice plains.

Pitch controlled himself to prevent any unseemly coughing, then asked conversationally, "So, North, how are your guardians going to find you _now_?"

Silence answered from above. Despite his aches and pains, Pitch let a vicious smirk cross his face. At last, almost a whisper of fear. So no, not planned. Just exactly as foolish happenstance as it seemed. That was almost a disappointment.

"Pitch? You are intact?" The sound of shuffling, scraping, suggesting North was somehow moving overhead. At least that meant he had the space to maneuver.

"Oh, I am in just as many pieces as usual, no matter how novel the arrangement." Pitch rolled his eyes. Spare him the guardians' overblown protective instinct- but he would exploit it if he must. "Do tell me, is there anything like a proper shadow in the depths of this place? A bottom?"

"A bottom, of course! How far down. . ." He had the distinct impression North was shrugging, which was worse than useless given Pitch was both out of sight and presently blind in any case. "It is like dawn. All is grey. You cannot tell?"

Damn. The light likely filtered through the ice like fog; he couldn't escape it, even off the surface. There went his chances for an easy exit, once he'd recovered some strength. He couldn't claim to be surprised. "You'll forgive me if I am currently indisposed." It was and wasn't an answer.

"Can you move?"

"I am _upside down_, you ham-handed cretin." Pitch scrabbled at the wall with his extended hand, succeeding in doing nothing so much as establishing that his fingers were scraped raw. "The only direction I seem likely to move is down." He sighed gustily, "We are trapped. This is certainly the sort of thing to make you dwell on your life choices."

Like, strike earlier, faster, harder, before you lost your strength. He'd remember that for next time, though he was most certainly not signing up for an encore performance of this comedy of errors.

He heard an odd, bell-like rhythmic noise overhead, and a satisfied "Hmm!" from North. The sound continued and a cascade of cold, hard shards pelting him from above gave him a clue what North was up to. "Time for reflection, always good. But trapped? No. Nor ham-handed!"

"You seriously think you can carve the ice to freedom." Pitch let his tone tell North what he thought of that. Then changed his mind and promptly tacked on a more proper mocking tribute, "Well, then, you may make it out before next Christmas. And if you're _very _industrious you may have the world's largest ice slide to deliver to all the good little boys and girls."

"Ha! Ice slide, good idea. But that is more Jack's trick." The ice shards continued to rain down and slither under Pitch's collar. He gritted his teeth and vowed not to shiver, because the stars only knew where he'd end up if he did.

"What are you planning, North?"

"Is easy enough to make hand and foot holds. We climb." North's voice already sounded closer. _We._ Oh, of course North wouldn't leave him behind- the thought would never have occurred to the guardian. Even though it was the first thing Pitch would have done if his shadows were present. Closer still, North added speculatively, "But first, that is a very interesting position you are in."

"Oh, do laugh. Please," Pitch hissed.

As if he could feel any better about being wrong-end up, knowing full well the picture he made with spindly legs and upturned robe. His dignity was precarious at the best of times, these days. Why not add another insult to injury? As it stood now he was revoltingly dependent on North to finish this charade. (Not, of course, that that meant any promises about his being on his best behavior. If there was anyone who was never in danger of qualifying for North's "nice" list, it was Pitch Black.)

North tactfully avoided the comment all together. "Where you are, is very narrow. I cannot fit. But I may drop you rope."

"Do you really mean to tell me you carry ice-climbing equipment with you at all times?" Pitch could not quite contain his incredulity. His shoulders were beginning to strain with the effort of holding still, holding all his weight in such an awkward fashion. There was a great deal of rustling above, followed by long tearing noises. That was hardly reassuring.

"No, but close enough. Adventurers and guardians make do!"

"Please, excuse me from that number," Pitch replied dryly, then frowned as he felt something whisper about his ankles. "Is that as far as it goes?"

"Ah, I cannot see precisely, but I have lowered as much as I can. You must grab hold and climb up."

"Easier said than done." Pitch uncurled and stretched his legs upwards, catching the bit of rope between his ankles. What had North used, really? It felt flat, one edge raw, and alarmingly slippery. There was not a chance in hell he could snag it with his free hand. Well. He had another option.

This was going to be painful, inventive, and not a little acrobatic in the tight (to say the least) quarters. He pinned the makeshift rope to the wall with his left foot, creating slack, then wound it around his right ankle and calf as many times as he could by feel. Thrice was not nearly as many as he would like. "You had better have a good anchor, North. Drop me and you will never hear the end of it."

"Da. Would I do such a thing?"

North had barely spoken before Pitch shifted his shoulders, letting the rope take his weight. It hurt, oh, it definitely hurt; both the rope digging into his ankle and the ice scraping his shoulders too-long-cramped. Despite his misgivings, it held. He did slide further, but resolutely ignored it in favor of shifting position, squirming painfully so that his elbows pressed against the wall and let him edge slowly, steadily upwards.

The crevasse widened to a point where he could just barely twist his hips perpendicular to the wall- and curl into himself with shoulders held sideways on one long stretch to catch hold of the rope wrapped around his ankle. Pitch registered the feeling of embroidery on the thick fabric and realized he was holding on to a strip of North's elaborate sash. "So your vanity in your wardrobe pays off."

"Is not vanity when it is practical! You are in better place now?"

"Relax, North. I have rejoined the properly vertical world, at last." He transferred the death grip from his ankle to his forearm, letting his knees brace against the walls to ease the process. He barely avoided hissing in pain when the pressure finally let up off his ankle. The joint would not be worth much on the ice fields above. Climbing was going to be an agonizing process.

He wouldn't give North the satisfaction of knowing he was deteriorating.

Unexpectedly, the narrowness of the ice chasm helped; Pitch barely had to work to brace his legs while moving his grip upwards. Even though he'd hardly had motivation to study the processes used by those adrenaline junkies known as climbers, it was a logical progression to mimic: brace, release, brace, release. He passed one knot in the material, and then another. North spewed a steady stream of so-called encouragement that Pitch rather desperately wished he could tell to put a candy cane in it, except that North's voice was his only way of measuring progress. What a bleak thought.

"Otlichno, you are almost up. There is shelf, just above your head."

Shelf was obviously an optimistic term for it; Pitch's questing fingers found not quite a handspan jutting out from the wall. Ah- the gap was wider above this point, and he was still below where North could fit. He released one hand from North's sash and placed it flat to help lever himself up upon the scant toe-hold the ice provided. It might not have been the most graceful scramble, like a cockroach emerging from between the floorboards, but it did the job. North's voice now came from above his shoulders, and he clearly breathed a sigh of relief as Pitch's weight left the makeshift line. "There, hard part is done."

"I doubt your subjective version of measurements." Pitch leaned back against the wall, ignoring the way his limbs shook. He propped his right knee on the opposite side and let it take the weight rather than his abused ankle. As arduous as that was, that was only the beginning. However deep they were, the air was still and echoed strangely in the chasm. He casually hedged, "There is a great deal more up to go."

"Only ninety meters or so. That is nothing!" North asserted breezily. "Now, we rest before we climb."

Pitch closed his aching eyes, noting absolutely no difference between the white floating spots before and after. So long as North continued to be cheerfully oblivious and fed him information, that was no obstacle. The chasm, however. . . The Nightmare King could almost feel the weight of ice above him. He politely tuned out the lovely bit of irony that reminded him he'd attempted stranding Jack Frost in a place like this, if at the opposite pole. He was hardly desperate and without options. All he had to do now was bide his time and play along with North until he could escape properly.

Some time later, North broke the silence with an unwelcome observation, "You look terrible."

"I am supposed to look terrible." Pitch flashed sharp teeth in a sardonic grin. "I wouldn't bring looks into this if I were you, _Santa_."

"Ah, if you are well enough to argue, you are well enough to climb." The end of the sash-turned-rope he'd forgotten about swatted at him. Pitch grabbed it reflexively as it lashed against him, scowling upward. "Tie it around your waist."

"So we can weigh each other down when we fall? What a fantastically morbid idea." Pitch obeyed anyways, cinching the rope in place. "Or is your end not secure?"

"If it wasn't, you would already be at bottom."

Pitch recoiled, then laughed in his own dry way. "Really, North, you surprise me. You have quite the unexpected sadistic streak."

"I am full of surprises." The rope around Pitch's waist tugged him upwards and towards North. "Now. We climb."

Pitch reached blindly up to the space North just vacated, letting the sound and tug from the rope guide him. At last, his fingertips found the divots in the ice on each side where North had stood. He steeled himself. And climbed.

His mind became a blank, grey space, filled with nothing but the need to cling with numb fingers and push with frozen toes. Ever onward. Ever upward. Frequently, he had to pause and follow orders to jam himself in place while North moved ahead as far upward as he could on the line, carving new holds.

The worst moment of the ascent came when the chasm opened up enough that they could no longer brace against the opposite side. Pitch had a very unnerving moment of feeling suspended, bare and exposed, while he let go of one side to commit wholly to the other. With only one surface before them, it was also far more dangerous. The claustrophobic nature of the crevasse below now seemed comforting by comparison. North was positively chipper about the whole thing, waxing nostalgic about some . . . _escapades_ he'd had climbing glaciers in his youth.

"The lights! Ah, stars are so beautiful on the ice." North sighed gustily. "You do not know what you miss underground."

Pitch could not quite contain himself from sniping back, "Come, explore the arctic wastes with a native guide! See the sights!" Now there was an extra dose of irony he wasn't about to explain. "You are a terrible tour guide, North. Stop the ride already, I want off."

"Ah, but you have not seen the Santoff Claussen!" North stopped himself, considering. "Not properly."

"What now, are you planning a tour? Somehow I don't think your flunkies will appreciate the . . . surprise inspection." It would have been an opportunity, at any other time, to learn the weaknesses in the stronghold. Right now, what Pitch wanted most was to collapse into the darkest shadow available. And possibly scare the living daylights out of a well-deserving child as a palate cleanser.

North would never understand Pitch's longing for the cloaking deep shadows, the reassuring weight and press of rock overhead, the familiar echo of nightmare hooves on stone, but, well, there was no place like home. With icy wind buffeting him, anchored only by bony talons on the ice face, suspended in the senseless white stars of his vision- this was certainly not it.

"Ah, we are close. Few more meters," North cajoled Pitch out of his reverie.

"I am beginning to suspect you are an accomplished liar, North." Pitch dug his fingers into the face of the ice and wondered why his extremities going numb somehow didn't dull the pain in the least. "No, I know you are."

North chortled, "Is that compliment, Pitch?"

"I thought you were all wonder and delight, guardian. You tell me." Pitch rested his forehead against the ice for a moment while the gung ho idiot surged ahead.

"Layers! I am many things." There was a bit of grunting in effort and an odd slackening of the rope. "A ha! At the top, at last. Come."

Pitch forced trembling limbs back into motion. "You only get to play that card once, North, before I will cease to believe it in the slightest."

He managed a few more steps upwards before he reached for the next hold that wasn't there. Instead there was the jagged edge of a layer of flat ice. Perhaps North hadn't lied after all; this was the top. He pressed upwards, managing to hook an elbow over the lip.

Naturally, that was when his left foot slipped.

His right leg crumpled under the weight. He scrabbled at the sheer wall to try and regain his footing. Useless. Pitch skidded backwards and desperately clawed for a hold on the edge with the last of his strength. His gut dropped in horrified certainty.

The ice shattered under his hands.

And Pitch lost all contact with the world as he plummeted into the void.

He didn't even have time to cry out. Somehow it was so much more worse this time for knowing exactly what depth was below him.

Then there was a gut-wrenching jolt as his fall halted. Pitch registered the tight yank against his rib cage, and the unfortunate feeling of dangling, spinning on his back in midair like one of North's toys with its strings cut. Strings. The rope.

The spike of fear from North located the guardian for him before he even heard the man yelling his name. Pitch wrapped his hands around the line, anything to ground him from the horrible feeling of disorientation and helplessness. He'd flown before, of course he'd flown, but always on dreamsand, or riding a nightmare. Always when he could _see_. He really needed to take notes; this was suitably terrifying.

He was dimly aware North was hauling him up like a fisherman reeling in his catch. Swinging as he was, there wasn't anything he could do to assist the matter, except try to pretend he hadn't just been hyperventilating and trying not to scream. North's fear was gratifying in that regard- and finally, finally, something bothered the guardian.

Not that he was in any position to take advantage of that as North's bluff hands finally seized his own, then hauled him over on to firm ground. By unspoken agreement, they staggered together several steps away from the crevasse before collapsing into the snow.

Pitch lay on his back, staring blindly upward and attempting to regain his equilibrium for a long moment before he could be properly snide. "Come, you said. See the sights, you said. You won't drop me, you said. _Liar._"

"I did not drop! You slid." North's fear spiked at that, as if the memory was enough of a trigger. "Pitch, you fell."

"Hmph." Pitch made an aborted airy wave that left his arm dropping listlessly into the drift. "Semantics."

"That was very dangerous." He heard North standing, brushing the snow and ice off. "You are so very weak. . . We must get you to the Kristoff Claussen, and soon."

And like that, Pitch finally realized why North was afraid. North was afraid _for_ him.

"I do not need to be _coddled_." Pitch shifted to stand and stride towards the source of the guardian's voice; he didn't make it halfway upright before his legs gave out and dropped him straight back into the snow. It took far too much effort to catch himself. North's hands on his shoulders pushed him back into a seated position.

"You are hurt! How badly?"

"I'm fine."

North snorted inelegantly. "You cannot look me in eye and say that."

Pitch aimed his glare in North's general direction. Given the unwanted proximity, he doubted he could possibly miss. "I don't want your help, North."

He heard North's sharp intake of breath in discovery. "Pitch. . . your eyes do not focus."

Pitch attempted to slap away North's hand seizing his chin, closing his eyes and tilting his head away in protest. North was stronger. He repeated seriously, "Pitch. How long have you had trouble seeing? The fall?"

The instinct to lie was strong, but so was the urge to make North squirm. The latter won out. He snarled, "Since we came here, you fool."

"Snowblind," North swore under his breath. "Your eyes are too sensitive."

"You just realized?" Pitch shoved North's hand away from his face, not even pleased that the man finally let go. "I should like to see you navigate _my _home, guardian. There are layers upon layers of darkness, with fearlings and nightmares between."

If he sounded wistful rather than biting, perhaps he could be excused.

North sighed. "Blind. What else?"

"What do you mean, what else?" Pitch attempted to shift away, openly bitter. "Isn't that enough?"

"Pitch, with you, there is always more." The guardian's heavy hands landed squarely on Pitch's shoulders. "Tell me where you are hurt, or I will find out for myself."

He could play coy, but Pitch was in no mood to deal with being pawed at by the bloody Santa Claus. Of the many aches and pains clamoring for his attention, the only one Pitch could not ignore, and could not hide, was the ankle. Especially in this place with ever-unstable footing. Pitch preferred sand; at least sand didn't usually hide gaping holes. Desert nights were something he was quite familiar with in the past few decades especially. He resigned himself and grudgingly admitted, "The right ankle."

"When did _that_ happen?"

Pitch shrugged noncommittally, "Somewhere in the acrobatics below. It's not-" He flinched as one of North's enormous mitt hands closed around the swollen joint. He finished through gritted teeth, "It's not important."

"You should have said something." North probed at Pitch's injury like a mechanic diagnosing a hydraulic failure. Pitch set his jaw and resolved not to make a noise, until North flexed his foot in a way that left him yelping.

"Do you mind-?!" Pitch attempted to pull away. "If you're only going to make it worse, _let go_."

"This- you should not walk on this." North grumbled, then there was a familiar noise of tearing fabric. "You should not have climbed on it. That is bad sprain, nearly dislocated. Did you not notice in cold, or are you too proud?"

Pitch twitched as North raised the injured foot, forcing Pitch to lean back on his hands to keep his balance. His shoulders ached at the simple effort. He had no patience for a lecture from North, not now. "A sprain is not a break, and even a break is nothing to a spirit. Don't try to tell me you haven't fought with worse, North."

"Proud, then." North sighed, then held Pitch's ankle immobile as he began wrapping it in what Pitch suspected was a strip from the much-abused sash. "You are all over mess. Were you whole, they would have healed by now. We must get you to shadow before you fade away."

"Oh, _now_ you pretend to care!" Pitch snapped. "Don't be naive, North, it doesn't suit you. It would hardly be the first time."

North's hands froze. Pitch would have given a good deal to know what expression the man was wearing now. "You have been . . . banished before?"

"More often recently than I would like, but I am _old_, guardian." Pitch made an effort to control his temper. Not yet a millennium old- the Santa Claus was still a child by comparison to the Boogeyman. "Fear has always been and always will be, despite your antics. I would have already returned to my lair by now if you'd _let me_."

"You return there when you reform?"

"In the dark, recovering from the world's worst hangover. It's not nearly as dramatic as you're making it out to be. Sandy overreacted," Pitch scoffed.

He could almost hear North turning over the pieces in his brain. He would grant the guardian that; given time and a puzzle, North could usually put them together. Not always in ways the creator intended. "Hangover. . . then you do not always remember before."

Trust the Russian spirit to be familiar with being blackout drunk. "I wouldn't worry about that very much, North. You lot always do _such_ a good job of filling in the blanks for me."

North's hands tensed sharply on Pitch's ankle, then he gave an absent pat in apology. "We must do better." He paused, tying off the makeshift bandage. "And better would be not at all."

Pitch lost track of North when he released his foot. And startled when the snow crunched next to him. North grasped Pitch's right arm, looping it over his own massive shoulders, then wrapped his arm around the Nightmare King's waist. Pitch pretended he wasn't alarmed, "What do you think you're doing?"

North wasn't to be put off; he hauled Pitch up as he stood. Pitch suspected North was hanging on to the remains of the sash for a handhold, given the absence of such convenience in Pitch's normal wardrobe. "Come, up we go."

Pitch almost dropped through his hands anyways as North took the first step, leaving him scrambling for balance as his bad leg wouldn't support him. North paused patiently while Pitch adjusted, forced to cling to the guardian for support.

"This is undignified and utterly unnecessary, North."

North, secret bastard that he really was, took another step and left Pitch hobbling along awkwardly. "True, I could always carry. Would be easier. You do not weigh more than sack of toys."

Visions of being thrown over the guardian's shoulder and hauled along exactly like said sack of toys danced like the proverbial sugar plums in his head. Oh, there were still unplumbed depths to the horror of this situation after all. Pitch hurriedly corrected, "Shut up and walk, North."

North chortled in his ear, but cooperated for once. Together they managed an awkward three-legged gait across the wastes. At least North made a half-way decent crutch; he was certainly conveniently taller than most of the other guardians. And a better windbreak. Unsurprisingly, the other spirit put off heat like a furnace: well-fed, heavily built, and heavily dressed. Pitch dug his long fingers into the softness of the fur-lined collar, half for balance and half for warmth. He supposed there were some benefits to a more material existence.

He'd never bothered trying, really. Nothing lasted long enough, in the shadows, and it wasn't as if he had the minions, anyways. The nightmares didn't quite qualify in that regard.

North seemed to notice, making a low hum of amusement. "If you were nice, yetis might make you coat."

Pitch snorted, but didn't move his hand. That would be too much like an admission. "_Nice_. Please. You and I both know I'm not a child. I'd have thought they were busy making shoes for your youngest, anyways."

"Oh, elves already make him slippers." North nodded wisely. "Blue with bells."

Pitch tried and failed to imagine Frost's reaction to the elves' sartorial choices. It must have been priceless. "Of course. I think I'll pass."

"You, elves would feed. Much too skinny." North brightened audibly, "You must try eggnog."

That was so far from Pitch's preferred diet it almost didn't deserve commentary. "The only people who are afraid of eggnog are dieters, North."

"Is excellent! And cookies." North sighed in happy reminiscence.

"A menace to waistlines everywhere, truly." Pitch sighed. As usual, the guardian missed the point completely. He could do with scaring an entire troop of girl scouts with campfire stories while North would be off raiding their cookies. They had rather different views on dietary requirements.

Pitch only realized they'd fallen into a traveling rhythm when it was broken. By him stumbling and not having the energy to care he was likely to fall face first into ice, much less do anything about it. There was a certain sort of relief in the apathy of exhaustion.

"Pitch? Pitch!"

Except North was yapping at him. The jump from concern to alarm was a nice touch, though.

"Yes, what?" Pitch answered vaguely.

"I do not think you should sleep."

"Why not?" All of him hurt. Certainly he deserved a rest.

"Nightmares are no good for you now." A chiding hand patted his face. "Come, up."

Ah, guardian, far too close for comfort. That made him wrinkle his nose in distaste- and realize he was slumped, half-kneeling in the snow, while North supported most of his weight. How embarrassing. He attempted to gather his wits, reopening useless eyes. "Perhaps you're more fond of nightmares than you claim, since you seem insistent on dragging out my personal hell. Very well."

With North pulling, Pitch tried to regain his feet.

And failed.

He wasn't sure who was more horrified, him or the guardian. "I can't." He struggled to keep from panicking. "Just let me _rest_, North."

When the larger spirit eased him off his shoulder, Pitch thought he'd agreed to a reprieve. Allow them both a breather, let Pitch get his wind back, and try again. He half-collapsed backwards, exhausted beyond measure. That was his excuse for not realizing what North was actually up to. The nap he thought he was getting was rudely interrupted by North stating, "Then I carry you rest of the way."

With absolutely no grace or further warning, North suited action to word and scooped Pitch up straight out of the snow. He thought being thrown over North's shoulder with all the dignity of a sack of coal would be humiliating. Oh no, no, this was worse. Infinitely worse.

North cradled him like some consumptive bride, or a shepherd bringing in a misplaced lamb. Pitch went from horrified to mortified in no time at all. "North- North, put me down!"

The more he squirmed the more firmly North held him put. There wasn't even the assurance of any ill will behind it; North was aggravatingly gentle. Overwhelmingly benign. And he was already walking on. Pitch clenched his fingers ineffectually in North's coat and seethed.

North was blithely immune to Pitch's blind dagger glares. "Ah, I told you. This way is faster, and you cannot hobble up mountain."

"Mountains-?" Pitch was momentarily distracted. Of course he wouldn't have noticed; with only one foot touching the ground the gradual change in slope would have been easily missed. "Then we're getting closer."

"Always getting closer!" North hmmed thoughtfully. "Perhaps soon we meet yetis."

"Yetis-?!" Oh, hell, North was going to pass him off to his ungroomed posse like a broken toy to be fixed. North was bad enough, but the abominable snowmen? He could see it now. The fleas would infest his nightmares and never leave. And then an altogether worse thought occurred to him. "North. You are _not_ carrying me in like a fairy tale damsel in distress in front of the others."

"Always liked fairy tales." Now North was being deliberately obtuse, he knew it. "No worries, Pitch, yetis will not talk. Is more than one door to the Santoff Claussen."

Still. Yetis. And the irony of North telling the Nightmare King there was _nothing to fear_. . . Pitch let his head bow and grimaced. ". . . I hate you, and if you ever breathe a word of this I am destroying you, down to the last bloody elf."

"Yes, Pitch, I shiver in boots."

"There are not _words _for how much I despise you."

Really. Who knew the kind, jolly old Santa Claus was so despicable?

Pitch thought North tried to keep him engaged while ascending into the mountains, but fighting an uphill battle on two fronts (some more literal than others) was a losing proposition. Pitch could have told him that and saved him the effort. Somewhere along the way, Pitch lost time, and could only ever measure it in recalled snatches of carols and classics that North cheerfully hummed as he walked. The half-familiar songs, warmth on one side and chill wind on the other, the inescapable white behind his eyes, and ever-present movement permeated his not-quite-dreams in a surreal way.

So he wasn't entirely sure if he was awake when he heard North speaking.

"Of course I am fine. No worse for wear, just a little adventure. Our guest. . . Yes, guest, needs room. And dark." Pitch almost certainly imagined the mischief in the guardian's voice. "Perhaps send elves to check on, da? Must be good hosts!"

Clearly that couldn't be directed at him, so there was no point in even attempting to rouse himself to respond. Something hummed at the edges of his awareness; perhaps it was the sound, of unintelligible growling and barks that were quickly hushed.

He came back to himself more fully as he finally touched true shadow, and realized North was putting him down. On a hard, even surface. "Where . . .?"

"Santoff Claussen. I show you great hospitality!" He could hear the grin in North's voice as he was rather abruptly rolled in a complete revolution to end up on his back. On what had to be the floor. He was considerably more awake now and not amused by the prospect. "We make you comfortable."

Clearly they were speaking different languages again if this was what North considered comfortable. Pitch attempted to get his elbows under him, and glared in the appropriate direction. "North, what-?"

"Shh, Pitch. Yetis say you are not only guest."

Pitch cut himself off as he registered exactly what had been nagging at him; the presence of _fears_, deep, abiding, character flaws of fears. In a very familiar spectrum. Over there, the sharp fear of being the last alone, fear of not meeting their own standards; coming closer, the fear of failing despite one's self, of being abandoned, of losing recognition dearly won. Another, the gentle wash of fear of losing a comrade (but not nearly so deep, nor believed in). On one hand, it was an oasis after too much desert. On the other, he knew exactly who those belonged to. Damn.

"Stay put." North patted him on the cheek in a rather proprietary way. "No worries, elves will take excellent care of you, da?"

Pitch shot what he hoped was a truly withering glare at North as he rose and stepped away. Pitch himself could still see nothing, though the ache behind his eyes was gradually easing. His forehead was brushing . . . something.

North took a few hasty steps away, and in what sounded like the corridor, was hailed by his fellows from a distance.

"North!"

Pitch rolled his eyes. The rabbit. Of course.

"North! You're okay?!"

And the littlest nuisance, not far behind.

North laughed easily, a deep sound that all but rolled. "I am fine."

"What happened?" The sound of claws on hard floor. "Thought we lost you, mate. Flash of light, and both of yah were gone. We've been looking for days."

"Ah, that was snow globe breaking." He could all but hear North shrug.

"Huh. You were right, Sandy." The faint creak of wood as Jack leaned on his staff. "Where'd you end up?"

"In the Arctic. Small adventure, coming home- it reminded me of old times." North sighed gustily, obviously pleased with himself.

"What happened to Pitch?"

"Pitch? I am sure he is under bed somewhere. Do not worry, Jack." Footsteps led away down the hall, the voices receding. "Where have you been looking, Sandy? And where is Tooth? You must tell me what I missed!"

Pitch gently lowered his head back to the floor, though he rather wanted to drop it.

North. _Really._

When North finally had the chance to check back under his guest bed, there was nothing to be found. Except, of course, a host of elves that rather suddenly started jumping at shadows.

And Pitch? Wouldn't tell a soul, but sometimes, he heard carols in his nightmares.

* * *

**Author notes:**

For the meme: . ?thread=384743#cmt384743

Many thank yous to Flidget, who betaed for me even after going "I did not expect you to write this!" in several hilarious ways and also to all the anons, who commented and gave excellent encouragement on the meme. Any Russian is Google-translated using their pronunciation guides, so many many apologies to native speakers who know when I am slaughtering it (and the accent).

Mathematics time!: North is a big jolly old fellow; I'm estimating his sash was probably a good six inches wide and maybe two yards long to begin with. Torn into thirds length-wise then tied together, that gets you not quite six yards to play with. After being knotted and secured around North, I'm guessing that's between thirteen and fifteen feet at least, not inconsiderable! . . . And yeah, I use standard; North is almost undoubtedly on the metric system. Pitch? Pitch predates all of the above.

As a note, I posted this in multiple parts on AO3, but FF's upload system makes me weep inside, so for convenience's sake I left it undivided here. Not so coincidentally that's why my other multi-parters will probably not make the transition here unless I get very motivated.


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